these old bones
by achieving elysium
Summary: "He's always been fascinated with dinosaurs. Keith isn't entirely sure why—maybe it's because their footprints are still here, even after so long. Maybe he's hearing the echoes of history calling for him. Maybe, just maybe, it's because he sees himself in those old bones." A Keith character study told in three parts.


_i._

Keith is told he's born an autumn child on the cusp of winter, when frost creeps around the corner but the leaves are still painted red.

As he sits outside the principal's office, kicking his legs back and forth, the light on the floor is a fire-orange. Keith rubs his knuckles, picking at the dino-covered band-aid, and listens.

Voices drift through the closed door.

" _—_ _don't think this is the right place for him. And Keith has behavioral issues—"_

 _"_ _Keith needs an environment where—"_

 _"_ _This is not where he belongs. Do you see him? That boy is a forest fire. He's burning everything in his path."_

He stares at his knuckles, and his mouth tastes suddenly like ash.

 _This is not where he belongs._ There's no place for him here, and the thought makes his blood burn. His knuckles itch; it's the same prickling that causes him to pick fights.

Three months later, someone hands him a letter from the Garrison, a thousand miles away from where he lives.

 _Dear cadet,_

 _We are pleased to accept you amongst our ranks at the Garrison Academy for Future Explorers. You and your family—_

—At this, Keith laughs—

 _—_ _should take immense pride in your achievements. The Garrison faculty, students, administration, and mission teams welcome you into our community. Our establishment has been built on a strong foundation, following in the paths paved by those before us._

 _You are invited to join the upcoming year's class, a diverse and well-rounded group of individuals. They will become not only your classmates, but future team members in space-bound explorations._

 _On behalf of those at the Garrison, I extend my congratulations—_

Keith doesn't need to read more. He scans the letter one more time, just to make sure it's real, and then folds it up again with shaking hands.

"I'm going to the Garrison," he says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears. Keith swallows, then says it louder. "I'm going to the Garrison."

It is everything he expects and more. None of it seems real — taking train after train from Texas all the way to Nevada, sitting with his knees pressed against his chest as the world passes by, and then arriving in the middle of the desert, duffel bag by his side.

The air tastes like dust.

It tastes like dust, and distant rain, and the vague promise of a different life. Keith licks his lips, picks up his duffle bag, and walks in.

It's different at the Garrison. Keith rooms with another kid for a while, some guy he can't quite remember the face of. He doesn't last long. They never do.

So the Garrison figures something else out.

Keith manages to convince them to let him sleep in a dorm alone. He doesn't have to stare at the ceiling at night and listen to a roommate breathe, doesn't have to worry about making small talk, doesn't have to know that there's a what-if sharing his space. He doesn't know exactly how, but he pulls a few strings. Orphan. Behavioral issues. Asks, and asks, and asks, until they let him have it.

The scholarship is only as good as Keith.

Piloting comes to him naturally. He imagines being in space. Loves it. Soars far, far above the people who want to leave him behind and the things that chain him to the ground.

The rest doesn't go well.

Like every other place, Keith gets into fights. It doesn't matter with who or what about, but he carries an anger in him that refuses to go away. From his bones and lungs and blood.

"Look, kid," Iverson tells him. "I don't care how good you are at flying. You're here because we want you here. Don't stop making us want you."

He bites his lip, rubbing at the bruises he's sure are forming under the thick uniform.

"Okay," he says, but he wants to tell Iverson about the way people look at him. The way he looks at people.

"You have to work hard to belong here," Iverson tells him as a closing statement and shuts the door in his face.

Keith turns and stalks back towards his room. He's not brave enough to say that belonging isn't a word he knows well.

It's Shiro who changes things.

Takashi Shirogane, the Garrison legend. Keith knows him, and envies him, and strives to be like him.

He's a star — a sun of sorts — and people seem to be caught in his orbit, circling around him. Keith signs up for the mentoring program, designed for students and staff – not particularly because he wants to, but because there's a thirst to be at the top – and winds up with Shiro as his mentor.

When he sees Shiro, he calls it a coincidence, then a mistake, then a blessing.

"Hey," Shiro says, standing up and extending his hand. "You must be Keith."

Keith takes his hand warily, and they shake.

"It's nice to meet you," he mumbles.

"Shiro."

"Shiro," Keith repeats, tilting his head so their eyes meet. In Shiro's, he thinks he can see himself. Older — and maybe a bit different, but there's a spark of the flame that Keith carries.

It's the start of a friendship, even if Keith doesn't know it yet.

The first time Shiro calls him brother, it's on the roof of the Garrison late at night long after curfew. They both know it, and Keith is surprised to find Shiro breaking the rules.

"You're my brother," Shiro says, still staring at his sky. His hand finds Keith's, somehow, and their pinkies twist together in a promise. "I'm not leaving you behind. I'm going to come back to you."

"Shiro," Keith whispers, because he doesn't know what else to say. "Shiro."

This is what family feels like, he realizes. This warmth, their hands, the way Shiro looks at him from the corner of his eyes. This, the brightness he seems to carry in his chest after meeting Shiro; this, the promise; this, knowing they will find each other again, no matter how much space separates them.

"Here," Shiro says, rolling onto his side and propping himself up with his arm. With the other, he rummages around in the pocket of his uniform, searching. "I got you something."

His brows furrow.

"For what?"

"I… need you to keep it for me," Shiro tells him.

"Really," Keith says, because there's something in Shiro's voice that tells him it's more than that.

"You can give it back when we return from Kerberos," Shiro says. He finally finds what he's looking for and holds his hand out in a closed fist.

Keith opens his hand, and Shiro presses something into his palm. It's cold, and Keith can tell it's metal by the feeling of it on his skin.

"A charm," Keith says, dangling it from his fingers so he can look at it. It's a small thing, probably a little bigger than a quarter. At first, Keith thinks it's a 'V' until he looks closer and finds the curving lines that dance across the surface.

Wings. A pair of wings spread in flight, reminiscent of the pin over Shiro's heart and a silvery-gold in color. In the center is a circle — Earth, he realizes.

Shiro holds up a matching one and smiles.

"I'll think of you up there," he says, tilting his head towards the sky, moonlight tracing his features.

Keith wraps his hand around it and clutches it to his chest.

"Thank you," he says, and Shiro meets his eyes. "For the charm, and for teaching me how to fly."

Shiro smiles again, and this one is softer at the edges — almost sad, though Keith doesn't know why.

"You already knew how," he says softly, and Keith believes him.

And then Shiro disappears.

He doesn't come back like he promised. He's not dead. Keith knows it, _knows_ it, and it leads to fight after fight, black eyes and bruises that are nothing against the rawness in his chest.

Flight is different, now. He finds himself faltering more times than he can count, and his grades plummet after him. Before they can kick him out, before he can be sent off to a _family_ that won't fit together right, he leaves.

Keith spends the year exploring. Healing. He finds an abandoned shack and fills it with his things, pieces of his past that look more like a museum exhibit than a home.

The desert is quiet. He likes it.

On the quietest nights, Keith tacks up sticky notes, the same way Shiro used to about Kerberos. They aren't about piloting or the view of Earth from so far away. Instead, Keith writes sort-of letters to Shiro.

 _Wherever you are, I hope you're not too disappointed in me._

 _Went to the Garrison today for a supply run. Snuck through the halls and thought of you the entire time._

 _Where are you?_

 _I wouldn't have let you go if I'd known it meant I'd lose you._

 _…_ _It's killing me when you're away._

There's no one to talk to but himself, so Keith spins himself stories that are half-buried in truth. He makes up histories for the caves he explores, the things he finds: a broken spearhead, a piece of a clay pot, the strange markings on a cave wall. Keith throws himself into studying them. There's something otherworldly about the caves, a spark of something ethereal.

It's the same feeling he used to get as a kid, back when his dad was around. They'd explore together, Dad telling him stories of digs and peculiar finds, little pockets of history.

When he was younger, he'd marveled at the way light fell through the caverns, at how the ghosts of the past seemed to come to life when he was there. The pounding of feet against rock mirrored his heartbeat.

The lion markings make him feel like he's wading through time.

There's a thread that seems to connect everything: Kerberos' crash, the caves, Keith.

He's fitting the pieces together slowly, but he's still missing a few of the puzzle. Keith can't quite make out the bigger picture, and it frustrates him to no end.

Even a year after Shiro's disappearance, he can't figure it out. He's reading through his notes one night when a shift in the light from his window makes him go outside.

Something stirs in him.

 _Look_ , the ground whispers, and dust billows about his ankles. It teaches him to listen, tells him to stand still, so Keith does.

The earth hesitates, and Keith sinks into it. He becomes dirt and wind and star, tastes the storm on the horizon, and that's when he knows something's coming.

Keith stands on the old, creaky porch of his little shack and shields his eyes with his hand. The hoverbike keys dangle by his face, metal cool against his cheek, and out of the corner of his eye, Keith sees the little charm Shiro gave him.

 _I'm going to come back to you._

And then something falls from the sky.

He doesn't hesitate. Keith swings onto his hoverbike and chases after the falling star, his blood calling for him to follow it.

It burns in the sky, a deep red that reminds him, strangely enough, of lions. Curiosity sparks and scorches his chest, and he pushes his hoverbike as fast as it will go.

Keith tears up the cliff, climbing higher and higher so they'll meet in the sky. There's the flight and the fall; he's not sure who is doing what.

The engine rumbles when he slows, absentmindedly stopping it and stumbling off, eyes fixed on the meteor. Around him, the walls of stone sing. Their song is cautious and thready, and Keith weaves it between his fingers as he reaches for the sky.

There's a warning in the air.

The comet is beautiful. He imagines himself falling beside it, caught in the tail of flame. Imagines wrapping his body around it, imagines what it must feel like to hold a star, to hold a piece of the future and call it history. Imagines a burning in his chest, imagines a hole forming where his heart is.

Keith lifts his head higher, and his bones sigh.

Maybe they know something he doesn't. His body is a thousand years old, made of the same cosmic dust as the dinosaurs from long ago.

"What do you know?" he whispers, following the ridges of his knuckles and leveling them so they line up with the mountainous shapes around him. "What do you see?"

The dinosaurs.

History, his bones say. History, history. History repeats itself.

Keith swallows ash and tastes it in his lungs every time he breathes.

History, he thinks, and he wonders if this is how the dinosaurs felt. If they looked at the sky, at the falling comet, unaware of what would come next. If they felt wonder and fear, anticipation and dread. All of them make his heart pound; they are all too similar in their effects, and Keith revels in it all.

He watches the comet fall and fall and fall. When he closes his eyes, the light burns against his eyelids.

This, he thinks. This is an end, perhaps, and it is a beginning.

 _ii._

If Keith is being honest, there isn't much he misses about Earth.

There's not much to his name— and he doesn't have much, either. If Keith closes his eyes, he can picture the desert shack he'd only just begun to call home when they'd left.

The creaking floors. The caved-in couch, worn from use. The makeshift coffee table, the cracked walls, a few plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars he'd stuck on the ceiling.

Keith sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to bring himself down to Earth; his lips twist in a sort-of smile. What irony.

The door is silent as it slides out of his way, and Keith passes through without much thought. The cool air is a relief from the stuffy Castle, and he walks out. Farther and farther, until the bridge under his feet gives way to dirt and grass.

 _Not Earth_ , he thinks.

Keith isn't sure why he feels so torn about it. Being out here amongst the stars, being a part of Voltron — all of it feels so _right_ , somehow. And it's a place where he can belong. And Shiro's here.

"I'm… happy here," he says to no one. The words sound empty.

There's nothing for him on Earth—

Well.

He's only kept a handful of things from his childhood. A drawerful of miscellaneous bits and pieces: a picture of his father; a skateboard key-chain; some stickers. On the shelf is a book he's read a thousand times. Draped over his shoulders is a jacket that doesn't fit quite right but one he still wears anyway.

He doesn't miss any of them.

Keith turns his thoughts to summers spent hiking, to dust-covered hands and the little, broken fossils he'd dig up and keep like treasures.

He's always been fascinated with dinosaurs. Keith isn't entirely sure why — maybe it's because their footprints are still here, even after so long, or maybe he's hearing the echoes of history calling for him, or maybe it's because he sees himself in those old bones.

It's still not the same, of course. He doesn't miss Earth the same way Lance misses Earth: longing for his family, for a big house by the sea he calls home, for rainstorms and thunder. He doesn't miss Earth the same way Shiro does, through a string of distant memories and imaginings. He's not like Hunk, burning in his desire to create something that will remind him of home, a mother's loving hugs, always humming a song under his breath Keith will never be able to understand. Pidge, the way she longs for her mom in a way that Allura cannot replicate, the security of family, the promise of sunrise and sundown and tomorrow.

There's a rumbling sound; a shadow crawls over him, and Red lowers her head to the ground. He strides forward without a thought, and she opens her maw, letting him climb into the cockpit.

"Hello, Red," he says quietly.

She doesn't speak in words, not really, but he feels the welcome.

"Want to go for a late night flight?" he asks, and she purrs her agreement. Keith smiles. He's meant for her; they fit together easily.

Though Keith usually likes to test his skills and soar between the different obstacles Arus has to offer, he takes it slow today. He doesn't know why, but he thinks it might be because of the thoughts that brought him outside in the first place. Red indulges him, bending to his will.

She almost makes him forget Earth. Almost.

It's hard not to, with Red flying with the stars he'd always longed to be with. But there's still the lingering feeling that he's missing something, even if that something isn't what he'd call home.

"I don't know why," he says aloud as they descend, pressing as close to the ground as they dare. Keith stares at the mountainous forms, and a want grips his insides.

Red hums.

Her words trickle through slowly, like sand through a sieve, leaving only the important parts behind. Pottery shards, and precious stones, and little bits he stuffs in his pockets.

You belong here.

Keith worries at his lip.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I guess."

Her mind brushes against his, vast as the sky. It's a questioning thought, and Keith shrugs.

"I feel like there's something I'm missing," he says. "Something that you can't give me."

He soothes her with his love for flight, but underneath is a roiling kaleidoscope of emotions.

They pass an outcropping that looks exactly like his view from the window of his shack, and Keith banks upward, twisting away from it and climbing into the sky.

"Fly," he tells himself, and they go higher and higher to leave the ground behind. "Fly."

"Voltron," he murmurs when they've reached the clouds. "I like it here. I have a purpose now, don't I? And a team to stand with. And—"

And what? What else is there for him?

Keith doesn't know.

There's a sudden burning from his eyes, and Keith presses his trembling lips together. The tears don't stop, though, so Keith rubs at them furiously with a hand. The rough fabric of his gloves chafe against his skin, but he appreciates the feeling.

Red circles around him, and he swallows against the lump in his throat.

"Please," he whispers, but he doesn't know what he's pleading for.

A sob builds in him, forces his shoulders to shudder under its weight and a soft sound from his mouth.

He feels like he's running his hands down his ribs, counting them until one of them goes missing. Like he's missing something vital that he's never noticed before, a strange gap he wants filled.

Is this how Shiro feels? Does he reach for his arm the way Keith hunts for a home that doesn't exist?

Shiro will never get his arm back. It's been replaced by something _other_ , maybe for better, maybe for worse.

Maybe Keith's thought of home is the same.

Keith pins his jacket sleeve under his fingers and uses it to wipe the last of his tears from his eyes. His face feels hot and sticky, and his glove and sleeve are both damp, but he feels better.

Red purrs comfortingly in his mind. He absentminded pats the chair arm, and then sinks back, letting loose a long breath.

"Okay," he croaks. "Okay."

Okay.

When she senses he's ready, Red begins a slow ascent again.

They dance in the clouds above Arus. These ones don't speak to him like Earth's do, but Keith brings in the storm, thunder crackling in his ears.

From so high, Arus has patches of land and water that look exactly like the satellite photos of Earth they'd been shown at the Garrison. He ghosts his fingers along the window's glass and traces continents and oceans, calls them names they're not.

Suddenly, Keith wants desperately to go back to Earth, if only for a moment. It calls to him, tugging with a thread he hadn't known existed.

Maybe he does miss Earth after all.  
 _iii._

He doesn't know what to do.

Keith splits his life into two parts. There's the _before_ Voltron, and then there's _after_. He is human; he is Galra. He has his feet planted on Earth, but his roots float in space.

His life is a terrible, beautiful mess, and Keith returns to Earth a hero. Tragedy follows in his footsteps, hiding in his shadows, and bleeds red.

The ground under his feet crunches as he climbs, the dirt clinging to his boots both familiar and foreign at the same time. He doesn't know where he belongs anymore, and he's almost forgotten what Earth looks like.

 _Keith._

The dry wind carries his name, steals it from his lips and sings it to anyone who will listen.

"Keith," he says, because that's all he has left. There are no aliens he has to defend, no armor left to don, and no place to protect except here.

Earth. Here. His chest has been replaced with the spinning needle of a compass, turning in circle after circle as he searches for home.

Rock crumbles underneath him, and Keith yells, sliding until he hits ground again. He groans, half-expecting to look up to see the Galra waiting for him, friends behind him, but there's nothing in sight.

Keith clambers to his feet, dusting off his jacket and sighing.

He wants Red here. There's almost nothing he wants more than for his Lion to appear, gleaming in the midday sun from the skies. She'd land in front of him, bold and beautiful, and she'd say hello.

"Hello, Red," he says to the skies, and he wonders if she can hear him through what's left of their connection.

Team Voltron's time is over — well, his team, anyway. The five of them chose to return to Earth, to shed their armor like snakeskin and step back into their old lives.

It's strange.

Back then, when they'd been saying their goodbyes, Keith hadn't thought of where he'd end up. None of them had. Slipping back into a normal life wasn't something any of them could do — and for Keith, he found himself lost.

He's come back someone far different than he was before. This Keith is harder around the edges. This Keith still has bloodstains on his hands, has nightmares that keep him up in the soft early light, has seen places Earth's scientists had only dreamed of.

This Keith... this Keith has a family, now.

He feels his lips turn upwards into a grin. Strange, indeed.

The trek to his shack is shorter than he remembers. His route is a little different, but he makes it, chest tight from exertion.

It's still there, even after all this time. Untouched by others, left here for him to come back to.

Keith almost doesn't want to go in. He feels like the shack is from a different era completely.

Like so many other parts of his life, it has become a memory, a relic, the ruins of something that Keith once found solace in. It almost feels sacred.

The floorboards creak when he steps up to the front, pulling out his keys, and he unlocks the door with shaky hands. It swings in silently, and the inside beckons.

Keith swallows. On his things is a thin layer of grey dust, and now, Keith is sure he shouldn't be here. He's disturbed an old place that doesn't want to be touched.

When did his life change?

Keith squints at his little room and then crosses to the windows so he can pull down the drapes. Dust flies everywhere in thick, billowing clouds, and he covers his face with his sleeve and coughs.

"Ugh," he says when everything's settled and his lungs feel clear again.

Even in the light, things look different. Keith crosses his arms, but he can't seem to chase away the feeling that every part of the life he was so used to is gone now.

He crosses to the drawer and pulls it out. There's the picture frame of his father. Keith picks it up and observes it.

His father is grinning at the camera. There's a streak of dirt across his forehead, but he doesn't seem to care. In his arms is a younger Keith, so small and much more innocent; he is laughing, eyes bright as he looks up at the man holding him.

Keith wonders where his father is now.

Does he think of this picture? Does he remember this bright fragment of time, a brief moment captured forever to be kept long after he's left?

Keith sets it down on the tabletop. There's no anger in his heart, only a pain that has been eased by those who love him.

"Hey, Dad," Keith says, and he pauses, thinking of the trial that led him to his heritage. "Uh. It's been a while, I guess."

He runs over all the things in his head he wants to say. That he misses his father, but not much. That he's found a family not bound by blood, that he's carved a life for himself with the knife he'd been given, that he's back on Earth and left, again, with nothing.

"I missed it here," he says instead, and Keith draws the dagger from his side to hold up in the light. "On Earth, I mean. I didn't think I ever would, but I did."

He smiles wryly. Keith runs a finger along the sharp edge of the blade, and there's a slight sting as he's cut. He watches the blood pool under the knife and then looks at his reflection.

Dark eyes stare back at him — his mother's.

 _This blade belongs to you by blood._

"I'm Galra," Keith says, then adds, "well, half-Galra. You probably knew that, but…"

He taps the knife against the glass of the picture frame.

"I've always been human," he finally says, but those aren't quite the right words.

He never has enough words for what he wants to say. Instead, Keith picks out his hoverbike keys from the drawer and tucks the picture back where it belongs.

The drawer closes with a soft click. He looks at it for a moment, and then he leaves it behind.

The hoverbike is still shut away in the little storage space next to the shack. Keith shoves the doors open and tugs it out, his arms burning.

His keys clink together, and Keith's attention is drawn to the little charm on his keys. He can't help the smile that spreads across his face when he sees the wings; Keith pulls his phone from his pocket, checks for service, and then texts Shiro.

 _I have something of yours._

Then he climbs onto his hoverbike and flies.

It's not the same as flying in Red — there will never be anything like the Lions.

It will be a long time before he will hear a Lion's purr again, a long time before he will be brave enough to fly in a ship he knows cannot measure up to Red.

But this is different. Keith tears across the desert, heading for the one place he'd promised he wouldn't ever go back to.

The Garrison looms in the distance, the straight lines of the buildings clean against its surroundings. Keith stops a while away from it.

It's fitting, he thinks, looking at the place where the Galran escape pod had landed. The ship is gone, of course, but his memories are still there.

His younger self would have disagreed, but Keith feels right to come back here. He perches on the seat of his hoverbike, letting the wind tousle his hair like a fond hand.

"This is where it all started," he says, and in his mind's eye, he sees Voltron.

He sees Shiro, their head, the brave and fearless leader; Pidge, his fellow arm, defiant and brighter than any star; Lance, the right leg, selfless and funny, even if Keith will never admit it out loud; Hunk, the left leg, their support, full of warmth and a touch of steel.

They've parted and gone their separate ways, but Keith knows they haven't really left each other.

He's tempted to show his face at the Garrison and see what Iverson will think of him, but he turns his hoverbike and heads east instead. Keith follows a route he now knows by heart, deep into the caves where the Blue Lion waited patiently for her paladin.

The markings are still the same. Unlike with Lance, they don't respond to Keith's touch. He presses his palm against the rough rock and follows them deeper and deeper, using the small flashlight on his key ring to light up his path.

There's a steady dripping sound, and Keith steps into a pool of water. The sound echoes through the cave, and he stops.

Peace settles in him slowly, a thick blanket to keep out the cold. Keith savors the warmth of it, the honeyed sweetness, the light.

The compass in his chest spins. Slows. Hesitates before it stops to face true north.

Maybe he will never be able to find himself the way he found Voltron. Maybe he, too, will be forgotten by time, and his bones will rest beneath the earth. Maybe, if he closes his eyes, he already has.

Here, at last, Keith belongs.

Here, he thinks he might be home.


End file.
